Where the Rubble Lies
by BloodofthePen
Summary: Hawke and her companions flee from Kirkwall in the aftermath of the Chantry's destruction and the nullification of the Circle. Hawke does not want to talk about what happened, but may have no choice in the matter. She gave Anders a chance for redemption during the chaos, but what now?


The initial flight left them exhausted.

Now, the creaking of timbers and the salt scent of the sea creeping into the cabin, the rush of the waves, every tilt and roll of the ship was a comfort because it meant _rest_. There was a cabin for the captain and for the first mate—Isabela and the others told the two of them to take the captain's quarters for now. Perhaps no one wanted to put up with him while the memories were so fresh.

Perhaps they knew there was a discussion to be had.

Not that Hawke wanted anything more than to collapse on the cot and _forget everything_ until morning, when she had the energy to sort it out. She was halfway to executing this course of action, rolling down the covers, when Anders spoke.

"You… believe me? That there was no other course of action." His voice was soft, and without turning around, Hawke knew he had not moved from his stiff, awkward place by the door.

She straightened, but did not turn. "I believe," she kept her voice as even as possible, "that you believed there was no other course of action."

"That's not…"

"I don't want to talk about it right now, Anders."

Hawke began peeling off layers off armor and robes, fingers slipping more than once on sweat- and blood-soaked catches. She ought to clean it immediately. She finds she does not care. Sleep is much more important at the momen—

"Love, I know I haven't any right to ask."

"Then please don't."

"I need to know."

Hawke shut her eyes tight. She held her breath. She counted to six.

"If you're looking for validation—not tonight. Not now. I don't want to think about it. I want to sleep. And I want to do it without thinking about all of the people we left lying in the streets, staring up at the sky with dead eyes, _who never asked for this_." Her discarded boots hit the floor with a little more force than necessary.

"Aldis—" he said softly.

"_No._" She did not turn, did not move her eyes from her satchel as she rummaged around for a clean tunic. One satchel and her pack. All that was left of the life she built. She shrugged into a soft, grey shirt.

"Please—"

"_Anders—_"

"—I need to know—"

"_No._"

"—that you're all right."

Her fist struck the floor with a crack.

"_I AM MOST CERTAINLY NOT ALL RIGHT_."

Hawke whipped around to face him as he shrank back toward the closed door. She could not feel even the smallest amount of satisfaction at the guilt etched into his features. She advanced on him, jaw tight, steps measured, a fire alight in the pit of her stomach, the last dregs of mana racing through her veins, lit anew, dancing beneath her skin. Flames crackled along her fingertips, electric scent of magic clinging to the air.

"Don't—"

"I have no intention of setting you, myself, or this ship on fire," Hawke hissed. She took comfort in the play of flames along her palms; the heat in her chest, the searing tears that blurred her vision stoked it until she could feel the moisture sapped from the air. "_You want to know what I think of this, Anders?_ _I think I just lost my damn home, Anders_. _Thousands of good men and mages died today_." The tears were readily falling now, wet, sticky trails down her cheeks collecting blood and dust, hotter than the flames at her fingertips. "I think there wasn't a fucking thing I could do to stop it." A sob caught in her throat and she coughed.

He stretched his hands out to her for an instant_._

"No."

They dropped back to his side, but his eyes never left hers, though his chin dropped to his chest; she knew he desperately wanted to look at nothing but the floor, to take back his words. Anders could take nothing back now. He could only allow her to speak.

The flames winked out as quickly as they'd appeared. "I think I want to introduce your jaw to my fist." She turned from him, laughing through her tears as they dripped, bloody, onto her clean tunic, leaving fresh trails through the grime on her cheeks. "_Maker_." She plopped down onto the bed, her laughter wild—sometimes giggling—sometimes sobbing.

Anders' eyes did retreat to the floor then.

The sounds got caught up in her throat every few moments. She bent over her knees, laughter and tears, coughing and rubbing the tail of her shirt over her face in a hopeless attempt to dry it. The old blood and fresh tears simply smeared, salty and sticky. "I think—" She hiccoughed. "—Varric said it best: I am _sick_ of mages and Templars."

There were tears on his cheeks now, too.

"It's bullshit. Everything is bullshit. Templars, the Circle, the Chantry." She dissolved into fresh laughter. "_Oh, Maker_, the _Chantry_." She laughed ever harder.

Anders wrung his hands. They were shaking.

Once the laughter subsided, Hawke took tiny, shaking breaths, each one interrupted by a cough. Her eyes itched, wrung dry. She tried to blink the fuzzy areas in her vision away, and stretched out a hand onto the cot behind her, pulled her legs up, curled them, tucked them under the blanket, and lowered her head gently onto the pillow. It was cool on her cheek. She sighed, coughed again.

The light seemed dim after the aid of conjured flames, and Hawke could see Anders at a distance, still tall and stiff and shaking by the door. He might have been crying, but she could not see the tears. He made not a sound.

Hawke might have dozed there for a little while, exhausted and limp.

When she realized she was a little cold, and saw Anders exactly where she left him, she released the tiniest puff of air in a sigh. "Please come here," she said. Her voice was rough, quiet. She hoped he just did what she asked; she had no energy left for talk. No energy to string even two more thoughts together. Just… the cool sheets and exhausted limbs at rest and eyes that still itched and a sharp ache in her chest.

His coat and boots dropped to the floor and he climbed in beside her, careful not to touch.

Hawke rolled her eyes and tugged him close, rested her head on his chest. "I love you."

A soft sob did escape his lips then, and he brought a hand up to stroke her hair. "And I don't deserve it, love, not for a moment."

But she was already asleep.


End file.
